


The Ben Franklin Effect

by HorologiumParadox



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, First Meeting, Flirting, M/M, Meme-ish, The Pencil, based on a twitter thread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25671514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorologiumParadox/pseuds/HorologiumParadox
Summary: Dirk asks a cute boy for a pen.[Based on a Twitter post.]
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	The Ben Franklin Effect

**Author's Note:**

> I won't spoil the content here, but credits are due in the end notes. I wrote this in two hours and posted it without looking too much, so if you see anything wrong, let me know!

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you're at a college lecture.

You pondered for days whether you should bother attending it when you can be incomparably more productive at home, with the aid of your gadgets. In the end, though, you had looked up the professor's name and realized he had an interesting background with projects of breaking new research. You were sold.

But you have a hard time focusing and often space out, so you find yourself sweeping the room with your eyes behind your glasses a minute into the teacher's talk. You have your bag on your lap and your fingers silently tap on the outer pouch with a steady rhythm, like the ticking of a clock. Knowing your head, it's probably timed _exactly_ to each second on a clock.

Then, your eyes fall on a Boy. He's young, dark-haired, bespectacled, buck-toothed and absolutely your type, sitting two seats away from you. Jesus Fucking Christ, he's right out of your horny catalogue.

You turn away before he can notice, but your interest is already piqued. The lecturer is talking about biotechnology and rewriting DNA, but you can only think of that guy's peckers now. You don't have much experience with courting and canoodling, so you have exactly one hour, forty seven minutes and twenty three seconds to come up with a way to get his number.

It doesn't take long. Your mind wracks your memory for something, anything at all, that can be used in your favor. You go through common conversation topics, memes, pointed inquiries, random requests for information and finally land on something promising.

On one of your undead streaks of insomnia, you had stumbled into some curious postulations about the human psyche. One particular phenomenon had caught your eye, because it had sounded ridiculous at the time. It was about a person's tendency to be more open to further kindness if they do you a favor rather than if you do them a solid instead, and open is what you're going for here.

So you chew on your cheek for a few seconds, looking fixedly at the professor talking about something likely fascinating but not quite as much as dick, before calmly pulling out your notebook and setting on the armrest. Then, you pretend to rummage through your bag, pats your pockets and looks around a bit at the floor, wrapping up the theatrics with a dramatic sigh.

With a voice so charged with exasperation that would put a mother of seven to shame, you lean over the gap between the seats and whisper: "Excuse me, do you have a pen I can borrow?"

The boy looks at you and holy shit. His eyes are really fucking blue. Like, seriously, are they real or holographic? How the fuck is it even possible for a real person's eyes to have contrast set up on 100%?

And the bastard fucking _smiles._

"Oh! I'm sorry, I only have a pencil. Is that okay?" He replies sweetly, and you have to kick your parasympathetic nervous system into gear again before you pass out or something.

"That's fine, thank you," you say, innocently, even going as far as drafting a faint smile on your thin lips.

Then, the boy grins, almost maniacally.

You watch with impending dread as he reaches into his bag and pulls out...holy shit.

He...fuck. Yeah, these are some sick fucking mind games going on right here. You distantly think this shouldn't make you aroused.

What he takes out of his bag is a motherfucking colossal pencil. The thing is ridiculously big. Can it even be used for its intended purpose? Who are you kidding, its sole purpose must be spreading mayhem and raising calamity throughout the globe. You think not even your wildest horse dildo has this kind of girth, mother of god.

Alright, let's not get psychoanalytical about this phallic object a hot guy is handing you. It's just a pencil. A fucking enormous pencil, but a pencil nonetheless.

You realize you've been staring at the thing without regard for your facial expression for an undetermined amount of time. You look up at your aggressor and he has a tight smile on. The son of a bitch knows exactly what he's doing.

In retrospect, you think Ben Franklin might have been an asshole, actually.

You mutter a 'thanks' as you take The Pencil, adjusting it in your grip with both hands to try and trace whatever grotesque shape you can on the paper. You pick up on snickers and chuckles behind you and see the exact moment in which the professor meets your eyes and glances in confusion at the wooden atrocity. You keep your expression dead serious, your body merely an empty vessel, devoid of embarrassment and regret.

You make sure to write a few sentences and look concentrated while your neurons all engage in a beatdown gangbang amongst themselves. The breeder of mischief doesn't speak to you again during the rest of the lecture, but you catch the mirth in his eyes when he glances at you from the corner of his eyes every once in a while.

When the lecture ends, you feel like a death sentence prisoner set free.

You put away your notebook and get up, walking over to the boy. He looks at you with a docile expression. You hold the hysterically big pencil in your hand and hold it out for him. You still can't fathom how pointlessly huge that prick is.

"Thanks for the pencil," you say, voice level. "It was really handy. In fact, I think I might even get one for myself."

Then, the man finally breaks.

He tries to hold it in, but doesn't fare well and bursts out laughing, cackling like an imp. You watch him, impassiveness your middle name.

"Man, your _face_ when I took out this thing out if my bag! Oh my god, I think I might have broken a rib, ow, ahahah…" He heaves, bracing himself on the seat in front of him.

"Yeah, it's...quite impressive in size," you smirk. His laughter picks up again.

"Fuck, oh god…" Eventually, his giggles die down to a few chuckles. “I’m sorry, are you mad?”

You shrug casually. “Nah, I’m good. If anything, I can always roll with the ironic act.”

You pause, considering your next course of action. The auditorium is quickly being drained of people, which means you’re going to have to leave soon.

Fuck it, you’ll trust BJ Franklin.

You clear your throat. “Sorry to bother you again,” you start, and his attention snaps from the door back to you, bright blue eyes pinned to yours, “but I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I borrow yours?”

The moment the line comes out of your mouth, you realize it’s terminally bad. It’s so bad that it’s got stage 5 cancer and three different kinds of heart diseases. You suck so much at this, and not even in the good way.

The boy stares at you for a few seconds. Your pulse is racing. Your mind is screaming. Your dick is mourning.

You open your mouth again to try to fix it and probably make it worse, but the boy hacks out a snort, then laughs brightly at you again.

“Jeez, is _that_ why you talked to me? You could have just asked like a normal person, man.”

You’re appaled.

“Uh, right, sorry.” You recalculate. “Well, if you don’t have any objections, could I get your phone number so we can talk again?”

“Yeah, sure,” he giggles, taking your phone to input his contact info when you hand him your phone. “By the way, I’m John.”

You take the phone back and glance at the screen. He’s typed his name as ‘Zooslord Poopsmell’. You chuckle, despite yourself. “I’m Dirk.”

“Alright, Dirk,” John says, picking up his bag and getting up. “I’ll see you around, then.” He circles around the row of seats and waves, flashing a grin before disappearing out the door. “Bye!”

You stay behind, staring at the screen.

You have a feeling you’re going to like this guy.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this Twitter thread: https://twitter.com/oscarewilde/status/1017507523115601920
> 
> Special thanks to Holli and Ace, who gave me the idea for this fic! <3


End file.
